Lightning Strike
by menolly-au
Summary: When Wilson is hit by lightning he wakes up with an unusual medical condition. House helps him to deal with it. House/Wilson first time. Remix of a drabble by another author.


_This is a remix of a drabble written by barefootpuddles on LJ. Their drabble is at barefootpuddles dot livejournal dot com blackslash 5229 dot html. Originally written for a sick!wilson challenge - it's only about two years late :)_

_Set in the sixth season and goes rapidly AU from there. _

_Last line of story is from the original drabble._

* * *

Wilson opened his eyes. He rolled his head from side to side, taking in the sight of House and Cuddy, sitting on either side of his bed. He had no idea where he was, or why he was here. His last memory was of walking across the parking lot to get to his car.

"What..." he tried to speak but his mouth was dry and his head was fuzzy. There was some music playing softly in the background and it was hard to concentrate. He licked his lips, they were dry and cracked. Cuddy held a straw to his lips and he drank gratefully, letting the cool water soothe his throat. House's eyes never left him and he tried to smile reassuringly at that worried face. If House was worried about him something major must have happened.

"You were hit by lightning, Wilson. You have second degree burns to your right arm and shoulder. They will take some time to heal, but you're going to be okay," Cuddy spoke quietly, in a soothing tone of voice. A tone he recognised from dealing with his own patients. He glanced at his arm, it was swathed in bandages. He tried to turn and check what medication they had him on but he gasped as he felt his skin tightening and pulling.

"Moron." House said, in what passed as an affectionate tone of voice for him. "Stop squirming. They're giving you the good stuff - morphine, lie there and enjoy it." There was a certain wistful tone to his voice and Wilson looked at him in alarm. It had only been a matter of weeks since his stay in Mayfield and Wilson knew that his friend still craved Vicodin.

House saw his concern, of course. "Oh, don't worry; they won't let me near it. As if I would steal your drugs."

"You stole a dead man's." Wilson said without thinking and then flinched, that was one of the many things they never talked about.

"It wasn't like he was needing them. Besides, haven't you heard? I'm a changed man." House rejoined, but mildly, his eyes still sweeping over Wilson's body. "Other than the searing pain in your arm and shoulder, the drug haze, and the fact that you're lying on one of this hospital's crappy mattresses, how are you _feeling _?"

Despite his discomfort Wilson almost laughed at the emphasis House put on the word 'feeling', he wondered if House was echoing his psychiatrist. Hopefully Nolan knew better than to use the 'f' word with House too often.

"Okay, bit tired." He said eventually as he realised they were both staring at him, waiting for his answer. It was a bit unnerving, although also touching, to have them united in this - he most often saw them at loggerheads.

"That's natural," Cuddy said with a smile, "go back to sleep if you like. We need to get you up and moving but that can wait." She touched his uninjured arm gently and laid a kiss on his forehead. As she moved away he smirked in satisfaction at House who pulled a face. He gave into the temptation to close his eyes, relaxing back into the sheets with a sigh. He quickly drifted off, lulled to sleep by the distant music.

* * *

When he woke again his friends were gone and there was a nurse in his room, checking his vitals.

"Good morning Doctor Wilson. I won't be long and then we'll get you cleaned up and changed."

He nodded, trying to remember her name, Kathleen, Karla, something like that. The music was louder now, and he was finding it distracting, he was surprised that it was still playing. They usually didn't let patients play their own music in the rooms as it could keep other patients awake.

"Where's that music coming from?"

She looked at him, puzzled, and then turned her head from side to side, as if seeking the source of the music.

"I can't hear any music Doctor Wilson."

"You must be able to hear it, it's very loud." It wasn't a song he recognised, but it was definitely a song, not random noise.

"There isn't any music, Doctor Wilson. Now, let's get you cleaned up and get that dressing changed." She started to reach for him but he pulled away, sending a wave of pain through his arm. He gasped and hissed then reached out with his other hand and pressed the button which would administer another dose of morphine.

"I can hear music," he said when the pain had receded slightly. "Get Doctor House, now."

* * *

"What song is playing now, Wilson?" House asked, his keen eyes raking over Wilson and the monitors. He seemed casual and relaxed but Wilson could see tension in his stance, in the way he was holding the cane. House had some experience with voices in his head, and although he might joke about this, Wilson knew he would take it seriously.

"It's not a radio station House; nobody announces the name of the song. It's just music, playing all the time."

"So it's not a song you recognise? Top forty hit?"

Wilson thought about it, but no, he didn't know what was playing. He wasn't an expert though, and he didn't have the musical knowledge to transcribe it for House. He tried to hum a few bars but he couldn't do that and listen at the same time.

"And you've heard this since you woke up?"

"Different songs but yes, the same type of music, sometimes louder, sometimes softer."

House was staring at him with that faraway look Wilson had often seen in his friend's eye when he was running a mental whiteboard on symptoms. Wilson could predict House's next words even before they came out of his mouth.

"I'll get Foreman to run some tests."

Wilson nodded, there were other neurologists in the hospital of course but he knew House would always prefer to use 'his people', whether because he trusted them more, or he knew that _they knew _if they screwed up they'd be hell to pay, Wilson wasn't sure.

* * *

Foreman came, and regarded him as if he was an interesting laboratory specimen; his eyes alight with the prospect of an unusual diagnosis. He asked questions, made notes, and scheduled Wilson in for a CT scan of his brain.

"It will probably clear up in a few days, but we'll check for any visible damage in case it doesn't. These cases are extremely rare."

"Great, glad to provide you the opportunity for another paper."

Foreman's mouth quirked in what passed for a smile for him and gathered up his results and left, passing Cuddy in the doorway.

Cuddy was carrying a large bunch of flowers with a 'get well' balloon in the middle. She put them down on the small table by his bed.

"These are from the clinic nurses; they knew I was coming up here so they asked me to bring them up."

"That was nice of them," Wilson said dutifully, though he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with them, or why anyone would think he would want flowers in his room.

"I'm not sure if they are more of a 'get well' bunch of flowers, or a 'thanks for keeping House out of the clinic' bunch of flowers. I've let him off clinic duty while you're a patient here." She explained at his confused look. "It was either that or spend all my time chasing him out of your room and into the clinic."

Wilson snorted in amusement, although truthfully House had been assigned a lot less clinic hours since Mayfield, he knew that Cuddy still regarded him with some apprehension after the events that led to his stay. Wilson couldn't blame her, he would never forget the look on his friend's face when she'd brought him to her office, or the desolation Wilson had felt when he'd dropped him off in the hospital's grounds.

"He's worried about you, you know. He's not used to being on the other side of the hospital bed; I think it's scaring him, although he'd never admit it of course."

Wilson looked away. He was also worried about House. He'd promised Doctor Nolan that he'd be there for House, at least for a few months after his release from Mayfield. House was battling severe depression, depression which had gone untreated for years, not to mention his addiction problems. Nolan had been adamant that he was not to live alone, nor was he to return to his old apartment.

Now Wilson was stuck in the hospital and House was going home to an empty apartment every night. Wilson was both concerned about House, and also concerned about what might be happening in his apartment without him there. He didn't need any more trouble with his neighbours.

"Hey," Cuddy gently touched his unburnt arm. He looked back to see her gazing down at him, concern in her eyes. "House is doing okay, and even you can't take the blame for being hit by lightning. You haven't 'abandoned' him if that's what you're thinking. Your burns are healing well according to Doctor Gonzali; she thinks you may be ready to be discharged in a few days time. Of course, you'll have to come back for treatment and monitoring of the burns and you won't be working for at least a month after your discharge.

Wilson grimaced, he knew there were weeks of healing ahead, each redressing of the burns was an exercise in pain, and he found himself resorting to the morphine pump far more often than he felt comfortable with. Work had always been a distraction for him but with this constant music in his head he didn't know how he was going to concentrate. He just hoped Foreman would come up with some solution besides 'wait and see'.

* * *

By the sixth day Wilson was tired and irritable and ready to snap the head off anyone who came near his room. There had been a seemingly never-ending parade of well-wishers stopping by, with flowers, and chocolates, and endless platitudes. They all meant well, and he'd struggled to put on his usual pleasant expression and greet them politely and with reassurances that, yes he was doing okay, he would be fine, he would be back at work before they knew it.

It was a relief when House came to see him and he could relax.

"Here that you've been terrorising the night staff. Don't tell me that Doctor Wilson's halo is slipping?"

"It sucks being in hospital," Wilson said sulkily. "The food's lousy, people come in and out of my room all day long, your team have been poking and prodding at me like I'm some sort of interesting specimen, and there's this damn noise in my head that no-one can explain. I'm going to sign myself out. I need to get out of here."

House sighed and rubbed the back of a thumbnail over his eyebrow, a sure sign that he was agitated about something. "It's fine with me, but there's a shit ton of paperwork you'll have to fill in. And Cuddy will probably descend on you like a screaming banshee; she doesn't like people fleeing the evil clutches of her hospital before she's done with them."

"I don't care. I'm not staying here another night to keep other people happy. Get me the forms."

"I think Foreman was planning a brain biopsy tomorrow." House mused, idly flipping the pages of Wilson's chart. "Apparently he thinks your brain isn't damaged enough he wants to fish around inside it, and see if he can see musical notes growing there, or an iPod."

Wilson gritted his teeth. "I'm not brain damaged; I can just hear music in my head." He knew that House was kidding, even though brain biopsy was one of Houses' patented 'go-to' diagnostic methods Foreman wasn't likely to inflict it on Wilson when there wasn't a life threatening condition to be dealt with. Usually House's patients only got that treatment when they had passed the stage of vomiting blood and seizing, and had begun circling the drain. He closed his eyes and listened to the music only he could hear. Most of the time it was maddening, but sometimes, occasionally, if he could relax into it, it was soothing. The music could cut out the outside world entirely and leave him cocooned in its grasp. He felt that if he could just make a connection with it, if he could _understand _it maybe he could learn to live with its constant presence.

He felt a touch on his arm and opened his eyes to see House staring at him, his eyes wide and a concerned expression on his face. He produced a pen light from somewhere and shone it in Wilson's eyes. Wilson batted it away irritably, the music was now back to being annoying, the peace of a moment ago shattered.

"I'm okay, House. It's not a new symptom; I was just listening to the music."

"The music in your head? I used to hear voices in my head too. There's a large building they send you to for that."

"I'm not crazy-"

"We say 'mentally ill' now."

"- and I'm not brain damaged. I just have music in my head. I'm not like you."

"Just as well, the cakes are lousy there."

Wilson shook his head, deciding to let that odd comment go. House has been very reluctant to talk about what he'd been through at Mayfield. He made oblique, jokey, references to it occasionally but never elaborated. It was another thing they didn't talk about.

"I think it's musical hallucinosis," Wilson said, breaking the awkward silence. "Caused by the lightning strike."

"Lightning strikes aren't known for their ability to magically confer music onto their victims. It's more likely to be caused by the morphine you've been on," House pointed out.

"In which case it will stop once I can come off opiate based painkillers."

"Which you can't do while your arm still looks like it's been used for the last course of someone's barbecue."

"I could try something else," Wilson suggested.

"You could, if you wanted to be in pain. I've done that rodeo. Ibuprofen isn't going to cut it for _you _, not yet anyway."

Wilson had to agree with that, he was still making liberal use of his PCA button. He thought he'd rather live with the music in his head than do without narcotics at this stage.

"Getting back to your escape plans - spend another night in here, get off the morphine drip and onto oxy and I'll get Gonzali to sign off on your release tomorrow. I'll even call off Foreman."

He could stand another night in here, and House had a point about the drip, he needed to be on pills when he went home. Reluctantly he agreed. He expected House to leave but instead he pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed, flipping the television set on. Wilson settled back down against the pillows, feeling calmer than he had all day.

* * *

"Oh no... " Wilson shook his head at the sight of the grand piano sitting crammed into the living room. "I am not having that here. There isn't room, House! This, you staying with me, is just a temporary arrangement. You can have that shipped back to your apartment. I might have known, I'm in the hospital for a few days and you're taking over my place." He was tired from the lengthy checkout procedures, and the trip here, and all he wanted to do was lie down. Fighting with House was just one more thing he didn't need. When had House had chance to have the piano moved here?

House put down the plastic bag containing Wilson's numerous medications and sat down on the piano stool, running his hand over the keys and ignoring Wilson completely.

"Have you missed me?" he crooned to the piano, gently patting it. "Don't listen to him; he's just jealous because I love you more."

"House..." Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose with the fingers of his left hand; his burned right arm was supported by a soft sling to stop him bumping it. It was throbbing in pain and he just wasn't up to any of House's games today.

House started playing, a soulful melody that sounded familiar to Wilson. He found himself drawn to the piano and House moved over on the bench, patting the empty space.

"Sit down, I'm not your old piano teacher, you're safe with me."

Wilson pulled a face, his older brother had had piano lessons, by the time it came to Wilson's turn his parents had decided that it was too expensive so he'd never learned. He sat down, close to House. The bench was barely long enough for them both. House kept playing while Wilson watched his fingers. House had long, elegant, fingers. Pianist fingers, Julie had said once, wasted on a man like House. Wilson hadn't said anything; House had never played for Julie. He rarely played when others could hear, but over the years of their friendship Wilson had heard him sometimes, playing long into the night while Wilson pretended to sleep on House's couch.

Now he watched those fingers, making their way up and down the keyboard, caressing each key in turn. His own fingers twitched and he felt the urge to join in, to make music with House. He reached out with his left hand and then pulled it back. He didn't know how to play; he didn't know anything about music.

House had stopped and was watching him intently.

"Wilson?"

Wilson stood up abruptly. "I'm going to have a lie down. Keep the noise down." He reached for the plastic hospital bag, he was due for a dose of Oxycodone and he wasn't going to take it in front of House.

As he went back to his bedroom he heard House start playing again. He sat on his bed and took his pills, carefully secreting the bottles away, and then laid back down. The song House was playing blended with the music in his head, both tunes mingling together, as if they had been written that way. He smiled as he listened to his own private concert and when he fell asleep he dreamed of black and white keys circling around him, dancing just out of his reach.

* * *

Wilson quickly grew bored and restless while he was recuperating at home. He went into the hospital with House in the morning for therapy and treatment for his burns and then took a taxi home. The apartment was quiet when House wasn't there, and although he should have enjoyed the peace he found himself wandering aimlessly from room to room.

He'd kept this apartment because it was easy; he'd just taken over the lease after Amber died. All his memories of her were still here, although he'd finally cleaned the mug she'd used the morning of the bus crash, and given the jacket she'd hung on the back of a chair to Goodwill. He'd been comfortable here, but now he was beginning to think that it was time to move on. House's piano was still in the living room, taking up too much space, and House himself would probably rather live in a different apartment. Wilson had seen how uneasy he had been when faced with a room full of pictures of Amber. Wilson had thought that, despite Nolan's orders, he'd only be staying with him for a short while - their previous attempt to live together hadn't lasted long - but House moving the piano here suggested that he had no immediate plans to move back to his own place. Wilson decided that he was okay with that.

He wandered over to the piano. He could still hear the music in his head - it never went away, although sometimes it was louder than other times. He'd tried putting the radio on to drown it out, but the conflicting sounds made him even more irritable so now he was stuck with trying to live with it.

He sat down on the bench and stared at the keys. House had taken to playing the piano every night, as if making up for all the months when he hadn't been able to play at all. Sometimes he played complex classical pieces, sometimes it was classic rock, or jazz. Sometimes Wilson suspected he was playing his own compositions. He wondered what it would be like; to summon music up like that, to allow all the feelings that were within him to come welling up through the piano keys.

He tentatively struck a key, and then another. It wasn't quite right so he experimentally poked at a few more keys. The sling was annoying him so he slipped it off and stretched out his right arm. It was still sore, and covered by a pressure bandage but he could use it, and his fingers hadn't been burnt. He laid his fingers over the piano keys, depressing them in sequence. He tried to match them to the music in his head, but it was elusive, biting his lip in concentration he tried again.

"Move over, Mozart." A rough, amused, voice cut through his thoughts and he jerked his hands off the keys as House settled down beside him on the bench. He hadn't heard him come in.

"Middle C." House pronounced, demonstrating on the piano. Then he played a series of sequential notes, very quickly. "C major scale." He played it again, slightly slower but each note flowing effortlessly into the next. Then he took his hands off the keys. "Your turn."

Wilson stared at the piano, uncertain. There was an exasperated sigh and then his left hand was lifted and put on the keys, House's own hand warm and strong over his. His middle finger was depressed on middle C.

"Middle C."

In turn each of his fingers was pressed to a key, with House being surprisingly gentle. When the scale was finished House took his hand away and Wilson felt a momentary sense of regret at the lost contact.

"Now, see if you can do it all by yourself this time."

This time he lifted his own fingers to the keys and played the simple scale, each note sounding out clearly. He turned to House and grinned.

"Yeah, yeah, you're a musical genius." House said. "Now, let's see you do it again but without the long pauses between the notes."

Wilson did it again, and then again, and then again. For a while he forgot to listen to the music in his head.

* * *

The next day Wilson returned from his therapy at the hospital and immediately sat down at the piano. House had taught him the names of all the keys, and several scales and he quickly ran through them, delighted to find that he remembered it all. Some of them were difficult to achieve with his right arm still painful but he knew that doing this also doubled as therapy so he persevered. Once he was warmed up he stopped and listened to the music only he could hear. Then his fingers returned to the keyboard and he started to pick out the notes, one by one, until what he was playing was close to what was in his head.

Time passed so quickly that he was again surprised by House's return. He wasn't expecting House to provide any further instruction but House went through into the kitchen, returned with two beers and settled himself down on the piano bench, hip to hip with Wilson.

"Been practising then? Gold star to the teacher's pet." House took a swig of his beer and then stretched his hands out. "Okay, if everything's ready on the dark side of the moon, sound the five tones."

Wilson laughed at the reference to the classic movie. At least he hadn't been sculpting musical notes out of his mashed potatoes. He put his fingers on the keys and started playing the notes, at first tentatively, and then more confidently.

House listened to the halting rendition of the music Wilson was hearing in his head with a thoughtful look on his face and then placed his fingers on the keys and started to play along. He wove a melody around the simplified version Wilson was playing, as if the music belonged to both of them.

"Like that?" House queried when he'd finished and Wilson nodded.

"That's it. That's what I'm hearing. Can you... can you teach me to play it like that?" If he could get the music out it would be easier, he was sure of it. He could play it, and it wouldn't be his to carry alone anymore. They could share the music between them.

"It's going to take a lot of work. You're starting oh, about forty years too late."

"I know, but I've got all the time in the world." He was due to go back to work in a week's time, and then things might get more difficult. But he'd make time for this. Just playing those few notes had lessened the irritation of having to listen to it all day long. He could _live _with it. With House's help.

He grinned in a sudden burst of pleasure, feeling an urge to reach out and hug House. He restrained himself by imagining the look on House's face if he did that. Instead he picked up one of the bottles of beer, nodding for House to take the other. He clinked his bottle against House's and then took a deep swallow.

"Too much of that and you won't be doing much more practising tonight," House said but he was smiling.

They played long into the night.

* * *

Wilson was used to House's abrasive and combative teaching style with his fellows. They learned, there was no doubt about that, but it wasn't restful for either House or them. He'd thought that piano lessons with House would be more of the same. That House would mock his fledgling efforts and call him a moron when he couldn't instantly reproduce what House showed him. He thought that House would tire of it quickly. Instead House was patient, and even encouraged him. Every night he sat next to Wilson on the bench and helped him play the music in his head. At other times he was as abrasive as usual, seeming to go out of his way to make their shared living experience as difficult as possible for Wilson. But during the piano lessons he gave everything he had to Wilson and Wilson drank it all in, thirstily

HIs days became full of music. He could name the notes now, and find them on the piano. He could reproduce a little of the music on the piano keys, finding the right sequence and feeling a sense of peace as the music that was inside of him began to flow to the outside. House taught him how to write down the notes he heard in his head and he became adept at doing that, his hand curled around the staves as he scribbled in the notes. He worked for hours on the piano, bringing that music to life. He played alone during the day, and with House at night.

Music had always been something he just listened to, liking some songs, not liking others; he'd never been anything but a passive consumer of it. A top forty sort of a guy. Now every piece of music he heard started his brain racing as he tried to analyse it, and to break it down into pieces. Instead of the music he heard in his head being a source of frustration he began to welcome its endless variations, almost eager to see what he would hear next.

When he came off the opiate painkillers the music remained, and although he didn't say anything to House, he wasn't sorry.

He went back to work, taking his music with him, cramming music paper into his briefcase to jot down tunes. Cuddy caught him one day in the clinic, scribbling on staves in between patients.

She pulled the sheets towards herself.

"You're writing music now? You've had House living with you for too long. Is this because of -" she trailed off, making a vague gesture towards him. Nobody really understood what had happened to him, or how much his life had changed, except House.

"It helps," he said simply, gathering the paper back up. "Sorry, I shouldn't be doing it here."

"Well, not really." She sounded amused rather than angry and she cocked her head as she looked at him. "You're looking well, Wilson."

"Surprisingly well?"

"Well, those were bad burns, and it was obviously a traumatic event for you. But you look better than you have since..." she trailed off but he could fill in the blanks. Better than he had since Amber died. He hadn't been happy since then (in truth, he'd rarely been happy before he met her). Now, these last few weeks, he'd been feeling alive again. Sitting on the piano stool next to House in the evening, playing music, those were things that made him truly happy.

"Are you still taking something for the pain?" Cuddy asked him, interrupting his thoughts. Her tone was casual but her body language made a lie out of that.

"I'm down to Tylenol and ibuprofen as needed." She looked relieved and he realised why. "House didn't take any of my pills, and I'm not supplying him with any. He's clean."

"You think," Cuddy said dubiously and he felt a flare of irritation.

"I know." He knew what House looked like on drugs and he wasn't taking any. At one stage he suspected that House hadn't been far from using again. House had even admitted himself that it was cook or try to score. Since Wilson's accident House hadn't once talked about cravings for Vicodin - or made overly elaborate meals in an attempt to distract himself. The energy he'd briefly thrown into cooking was now going into the music he made with Wilson - and he was behaving himself far better with music class than he had done with cooking class.

Cuddy regarded him for a moment longer but then nodded. "Okay, I'm glad. I don't want to see him like _that _again. I'm sure that having you around is helping him - living on his own wouldn't be good for him. You're a good friend to him, Wilson - I just hope he's not giving you too much of a hard time."

"He's... House. He stays up late, sleeps in to all hours, leaves his crap everywhere, refuses to do any cleaning and expects me to wait on him."

Cuddy snorted and gave him a sympathetic look but Wilson continued on. "But he's been good about what happened. He had his piano moved to my apartment and he's been helping me bring this music out of me. He's different when he plays the piano. Much more open." Wilson trailed off and remembered lying in bed listening to House as he played the piano late one evening. Delicate, gentle, music that lulled him to sleep. House softened when he was playing; he lost that tenseness, that waiting for the next bad thing to happen that characterized so much of his life. Sometimes Wilson just liked to sit and watch him play.

Wilson glanced at the music he was writing and Cuddy followed his gaze.

"Well, consider yourself told off. Don't make me come in here again or I'll have to give you more clinic hours." She smiled to show she wasn't serious and crossed to the door.

"Thanks, Cuddy."

"I'm glad you're doing well, I'm glad you're _both _doing well."

After Cuddy left Wilson picked the music sheets back up and read them, comparing to the music he was hearing, yes, it was very close. He put them away and focused on his next patient, tonight was soon enough to show House.

* * *

"This just isn't working, House." Wilson frowned at the piano, which was still taking up a large chunk of their living room. On top of that House had brought half a dozen guitars over from his apartment - ostensibly to see if Wilson's new found musical talent would transfer to guitar playing, or maybe just to be an ass - Wilson wasn't sure. He was sitting on the couch now, belting out a George Michael tune at the top of his lungs. They'd already had complaints from the neighbours about the piano playing; Wilson dreaded to think what they would make of the current concert.

House stopped singing and playing, the last chord being choked off in a whiny complaint. He stared at Wilson and then dropped his gaze.

"You want me to move out." House said flatly.  
Wilson shook his head vigorously, and put his hands up in a 'stop' gesture. "No! I didn't mean that. I just meant, we should look at getting a bigger place somewhere. Together. I mean... if you want to. You don't have to. I just thought... things have been pretty good - we haven't killed each other yet. So, you know, if you wanted to we could find another place. Together."

House regarded him carefully, as if he didn't trust what Wilson was saying.

"You want to move out? This apartment is practically the Amber Volakis museum."

Wilson winced at his bluntness but he couldn't deny the accusation.

"I don't want to live in a shrine anymore. Amber's gone and I think it's time to get on with my life."

"You just want me for my piano."

"No," Wilson shook his head, "I want the guitars too."

* * *

The piano fit nicely into their new condo, and the guitars decorated the walls. They'd used Bonnie's services to find their new place, although in the end Wilson wished they'd found a different realtor. Bonnie and House did nothing but snipe at each other and when Bonnie had handed them the keys she'd made a tart remark about 'hoping they'd be very happy together'.

The first night in their new place they'd sat together on the piano bench, the only piece of furniture in the living room, and played a duet that Wilson had composed. Wilson watched their hands flying up and down the keys, and listened to the music they were producing, and felt a sense of contentment that he hadn't felt in a long time. There might not be any furniture here, but this place felt like home, in a way that nowhere else had in a long time, not even Amber's apartment.

When there were finished his eyes roamed across the guitars on the wall and he went and picked one up, glancing at House for permission, or at least for no sign that House was going to object. He strummed the strings, delighted at the mellow sound of the instrument.

House groaned. "I suppose you think I'm going to teach you how to play guitar as well? What's next, are we going to form a band and go on the road together? Lightning Boy and the Amazing Cripple?"

As he was complaining he was getting up and limping across to Wilson. He took the guitar and sat back down on the bench. Wilson sat beside him, ready to learn.

* * *

Wilson closed his eyes and laid back on the couch. House was at his monthly therapy appointment with Nolan. He had been doing so well that Nolan had stepped him down from once every two weeks, and he'd also reduced the dose on his anti-depressants - a piece of information that House had surprisingly shared with him.

Wilson listened to the music in his head. No longer intrusive it was now just a  
background to his daily life - much like having a radio softly playing. He could tune it out if he wanted to, but sometimes, like now, he just liked to listen. House had shown him how to welcome the music into his life, and now he could speak the language.

He heard the door open and House's footsteps.

"There's some dinner in the oven," he called out. They shared the cooking but on therapy nights he always made something nice for House, something to warm him after his journey. Unravelling the strands of his life was always difficult for House and Wilson liked to remind him that he wasn't alone anymore. Later they would probably play together, long into the night, and he would see the tension disappear from his friend's shoulders.

He heard House open the oven door and take the food out and waited for him to appear in the living room. House would eat his dinner on the couch while they watched something trashy on television, with House providing his own commentary.

When he didn't appear after a few minutes Wilson frowned and went looking for him. He was sitting at their small kitchen table, eating his meal.

"Everything okay?" Wilson asked, taking the other seat.

"You just gonna watch me eat?" House asked, stuffing his mouth obnoxiously full.

"Not if you keep doing that." Despite his words Wilson kept sitting there. House ate a few more mouthfuls and then pushed the plate away, still half full. They sat quietly for a minute or so and then House pushed himself to his feet and limped to the piano, not bothering with his cane. He sat down on the bench and ran his hands up and down the keys, warming up. Wilson hovered, unsure if he was invited or not.

"Now you're just gonna watch me play? Get your ass over here." House growled and shifted over so that Wilson could slip into his usual spot beside him. Once Wilson was seated House took his hands off the keys and stared at them.

"What's wrong?" Wilson asked quietly.

House idly played a couple of notes, his long fingers elegant on the keys. Wilson loved watching them but tonight he refused to be distracted, he placed his hand over House's, stilling the music. House looked up at him, eyes wide.

"Tell me," Wilson said firmly. "Tell me what happened." He left his hand where it was, covering House's fingers, the piano keys cool beneath their joined touch.

"Cuddy is dating Lucas."

Wilson let that sink in. House hadn't mentioned the delusions that sent him to Mayfield since he'd been released. Wilson knew that he'd thought he'd slept with Cuddy - that they were on the verge of a relationship. He didn't know all the details but he knew it had been vividly real to House. So much so that he'd convinced Wilson. He felt cold at House's words. House had made so much progress; he _and _House had made so much progress in the last few months. Would this news shatter that? Was House going to go back to pursuing Cuddy - now that he knew he couldn't have her?

"Did you know?" House asked, finally removing his hand from under Wilsons' and resting it back on the piano bench, next to him.

Wilson denied it quickly, he hadn't. Cuddy had kept that quiet, very quiet.

"I should have known," House said. "I should have seen what was happening." He scratched his eyebrow with the back of his nail, his expression distant, not looking at Wilson. "There were signs..."

He sighed and put his hand down, again caressing a couple of keys on the keyboard.

"At one time I always knew when she was menstruating. I kept track of her cycles, Wilson. That's how obsessed I was with her. I knew who she was seeing, or not seeing, I knew her calendar, I knew everything about her. I thought, when I came out of Mayfield, that this was my chance. I intended to make a move. After a few weeks of sobriety - just to impress her," he laughed in a self-deprecating way. "I would never have missed the fact that she was dating someone - let alone Lucas Douglas."

Wilson's heart was beating rapidly as House talked. He'd tried for years to get House and Cuddy together, for both their sakes. But now, now he didn't want that.

"How did you find out?"

"He was in her office, having lunch with her."

Wilson puzzled on that. Obviously he hadn't been making visits to her office all this time - it would have been all around the hospital in no time.

"She's stopped hiding him." Wilson said slowly, working it out. "She doesn't care if you find out that she's dating. But she can't think you've lost interest in her."

"Maybe I have."

Wilson shook his head at the same time he felt a flutter of hope forming in his chest. "Why wouldn't you want to have a relationship with her? You've been looking her way for two years now, you... you _hallucinated _having sex with her! Now that you're doing so well why wouldn't you want to make a move on her?"

"The question is, why do you want me to?"

"I don't", Wilson blurted out.

House turned back to the keys, playing a few bars of music. Wilson smiled as he recognised the tune as one he'd been writing, and working on with House, over the last week. House warmed up to the music and went from idly playing to a full run through, finishing with a dramatic flourish.

"I don't either," House said eventually, glancing at him and then looking anyway. "Not anymore."

* * *

Music, and House, became a constant in Wilson's life. Music was new. His friendship with House had been there for over twenty years, but it had always been volatile, waxing and waning with the coming and going of Wilson's wives, with Stacy and then with Amber. Wilson had tried to kick House out of his life when Amber died, he'd tried to walk away, and even though he'd taken House back there had still been a thread of uncertainty in their relationship - a feeling that it could all fall apart when House, or Wilson, did something irrevocably stupid. House had always tested the limits, and tried to find the depth of Wilson's friendship with him.

When House had come to stay with him after he was released from Mayfield it had seemed temporary, a stepping stone for House until he was well enough to go back to his own apartment. Now, with their owning a place together, Wilson felt their relationship was back on equal footing. And with Wilson's sudden interest in music their friendship was closer than ever.

House was still a pain in the ass at times, still looking to take advantage of Wilson whenever he could but there wasn't a sense that either of them were looking for an escape plan. They lived in the condo, together, and neither had any plans to try and change that.

Playing piano and guitar together was a daily occurrence. Wilson found that the music helped him unwind from his long days at the hospital as nothing else ever had. The time he spent listening to music with House, playing music with House, and, as his skill grew, writing music with House, filled those parts of him that he hadn't even known were empty.

Sometimes after long sessions at the piano, when House's leg was cramping and Wilson's fingers were aching, they would retire to the couch in front of the television, sitting side by side, as they always had. With the television down low they would talk. Gradually House began to tell him about the events that had taken him to Mayfield. He talked about the first time he saw Amber, when he had been happily playing the piano in his old apartment, and the terrifying days afterwards, as he gradually lost his hold on his sanity. When he told him about the bachelor party, and how he thought he'd wanted to hurt Chase, Wilson's heart ached for him. None of them had noticed. _He _hadn't noticed.

In return Wilson confessed how lonely he had been while House was gone, and how frustrated he had been at not being able to help. That one phone call that House had made, asking for his help, had torn at him until the day that House had turned up on his doorstep, unannounced and uninvited.

House wouldn't talk about the detox, declaring it boring and mundane, although Wilson could see him remembering that it hadn't been been. Instead House told him about Freedom Fighter, and that mad day when House had escaped.

"He almost died, because of me. More blood on my hands." House said, staring into the flickering television screen. "Nolan was so angry that he gave up on me."

Except that House hadn't given up on himself, he'd stayed and changed. The man who sat beside Wilson every night playing the piano, was not the man who Wilson had dropped off at the doors of Mayfield. House had changed, and Wilson had changed too.

Wilson talked about the love he'd had for Amber, and the despair he'd felt at her death. How he'd thought he'd never be happy again.

Slowly, hesitantly, they talked about her last night, and what happened afterwards. What Wilson had asked of House, what House had done, and why Wilson had walked away.

"I didn't want you to hate me."

"I never hated you, House." _I loved you; I've always loved you _, Wilson thought but didn't say, not yet. "I just needed some time."

"I would have done whatever you asked."

"You did. You tried to save her. You risked your life to save her." Wilson said something he hadn't said before. "Thank you." His hands grasped House's tightly. "Thank you."

House looked at him, his eyes moist. "I'm sorry, Wilson. Thank you for coming back, thank you for staying."

"I'll never leave again," Wilson said, and he knew that it was true.

* * *

House's cane sounded loudly on the bare wooden floors of his empty apartment. Wilson stood and watched him as he made his way to the bathroom.

"House? We need to go."

When House had first told him that he'd sold his apartment Wilson had been concerned. House had always been a man who didn't embrace change, and giving up the apartment he'd lived in for so long was a big step for him.

Then he'd realised that this meant House trusted him; that he believed Wilson when he said he wasn't going to kick him out, or leave him for another wife. That the place they had now was_ theirs _.

They'd emptied the apartment of everything House wanted to keep; it was already on its way to their place. Now they were having a last check around before leaving here for good.

As he watched, House grasped the heavy mirror on the bathroom wall and struggled with it to remove it from the wall.

"We can't take that with us," Wilson said.

"In case of emergency, break glass," House said cryptically, finally winning his battle to get the mirror off the wall. He set it carefully to one side and Wilson saw that a part of the wall had been hollowed out behind the mirror. In the small alcove sat two bottle of Vicodin.

House grabbed both bottles, staring at them as they sat in his hands. Then he limped back towards Wilson. When he drew level with him he offered him the two bottles.

"Get rid of these, I don't need them anymore."

Wilson tightened his grip on the bottles and nodded wordlessly. House gave him a small nod of acknowledgement and then limped past him and out of the apartment. Wilson took a last glance around and then shut the door on the past.

He drove them both home.

* * *

Wilson lifted his hands from the keys and fist pumped.

"Yes!" He grinned at House, elated. It had been their most complex creation to date, and had taxed his skills to the limit. He and House had played it through, uninterrupted for the first time that night, and Wilson thought it had sounded amazing. House lent over to stop the recording he'd been making.

"Not bad," House said.

"Not bad? We rocked!"

"You stuffed up this part here," House flipped the pages and pointed at a bar half way down one. "But not bad for someone who's only been playing a year. You should get hit by lightning more often."

Wilson rubbed at his arm, although it was long since healed. He pulled a face. "No, thanks."

The lightning strike had been one of the worst things that ever happened to him, but also one of the best. Without it he wouldn't have this.

Impulsively he reached for House, drawing him into a hug. His arms went around the other man, and he felt House stiffen. Disappointed and surprised, Wilson began to draw back. He was stopped by strong arms suddenly holding him very close.

"No, don't..." House said, his voice rough. Wilson tightened his grip in response and lent his cheek alongside House's. He shifted on the stool to try and find a more comfortable position and his mouth moved against House's.

The first touch of lips against his caught him off guard and he didn't respond. He thought House would make a joke of it, and break their embrace but instead his grip remained steady and again he brushed his lips against Wilson, this time the kiss was on Wilson's cheek, his head slightly turned away. Surprised into silence Wilson tentatively returned the kiss, feeling the rough touch of stubble against his mouth.

They parted, and Wilson stared into House's wide eyes - he suspected his own were the same. A year ago he would have run in the opposite direction if House tried anything like this, and House would never have made a move. A year ago they were friends, now, after this last year, they were something more. Much, much more. The music they shared had completed the last link between them.

House pulled him close again and Wilson went willingly, leaning into his embrace. Their lips met and Wilson closed his eyes as the kiss deepened. He shifted on the hard surface of the piano bench and moved his right hand from House's waist to his shoulder, feeling the firm muscles there. He tightened his hold and felt a response in House. They broke apart again and this time House was smiling.

"Who knew piano benches could be this erotic?" House said. "But maybe we can go somewhere a bit more comfortable, like, my bed."

Wilson pretended to consider that. "I was going to suggest another run through." He glanced at the music propped up on the piano, although he could barely focus on the notes.

House grabbed the sheets of music and dropped them on the floor. "Forget the music for tonight."

They both stood and Wilson embraced House, bringing him into another kiss, their bodies melded against each other. Slowly, unable to let go of each other, they made their way to the bedroom.

The last year of their lives had led them to this point.

It began as music lessons, and it became something that was very, very good.

~ End


End file.
